Little Birds
by bushviper
Summary: When the Inquisition offered Samson the chance to atone for his sins, he accepted it gladly, but he never expected to find himself in the arms of a mage. Samson x Amell, Post-game AU, written as a gift for the TMB Secret Santa exchange. One shot.


**A/N: This was a gift for my dear pal, KuraNova, as part of our Secret Santa fic exchange. Sambam forever!**

* * *

 _12 Justinian, 9:43 Dragon_

"In acknowledgment of the role the Grey Wardens played in the disaster at the Conclave, we, King Alistair and Queen Elissa, on behalf of the Grey Wardens of Ferelden and with the sovereign authority of Ferelden's crown, do hereby bequeath the fortress of Soldier's Peak to the Inquisition, to be used as a hospital for the injured and infirm…"

The speech continued, but Samson stopped listening. He wondered if the King knew the truth and had decided it was impolitic to state it, or if the Commander actually had the stones to keep the monarchs in the dark about the true purpose of this hospital. Not to treat just any injured and infirm…

Red templars.

Nearly fifty of them, bunked in rooms that were as much prison cells as convalescent quarters. Of the hundreds, perhaps thousands of men and women he'd poisoned, thus far they'd captured only forty-seven that seemed capable of duplicating his rehabilitation. Samson glanced about the courtyard, where the small hospital crew stood in respectful silence, listening to the King's speech. Besides twenty soldiers and a dozen servants, there was Dagna, of course, and her strange girlfriend (the soft-hearted Inquisitor had allowed the elf to accompany her "Widdle"). They'd also assigned Apothecary Adan, with his two tranquil assistants, and two actual mages: the elven scholar, Minaeve, and a healer, Solona Amell. He looked doubtfully at the latter – a drab, wren-like woman. She seemed timid.

As soon as he'd shaken all the requisite hands, Samson mounted the steps and entered the keep. It was time to get to work.

...

 _1 Firstfall, 9:43 Dragon. Satinalia_

Solona made the rounds throughout Soldier's Peak on light feet, delivering her gifts. They were just silly little pen sketches she'd scratched out in her spare time, but so far they'd been well received. Even the tranquil mages seemed to like the pictures she'd drawn for them of the Inquisitor sealing the Breach, and of Skyhold.

"My quarters were in there," Hawkins said, brushing his fingertips against one of the fortress' towers.

She had one last gift to deliver and her heart pounded as she approached Captain Samson's door. She'd agonized most over what to draw for him, and had nearly decided not to give him anything. But it would be terribly rude of her to leave him out, and she _wanted_ to include him. She just felt foolish about it.

It was tempting to slide the little sketch under his door and scamper off like a house mouse, but she gave herself a stern mental shake and then knocked gently on the worn wood. After a moment, the captain opened the door, clad in only his trousers.

"Enchanter?" He looked surprised to see her, and no wonder. She'd never once been in his rooms.

"I hope I didn't wake you, Captain," she said, taking in his state of undress. "I have a little Satinalia gift for you. It's silly, I know."

Samson accepted the drawing and stood back. "Come in," he said absently, examining the piece of paper in his hands. It was the likeness of two chickadees, huddled together on a snowy bough.

Solona stepped through the door, looking about his quarters curiously. His room was nearly as spare as the tranquils', except for stacks of books on the floor and table. She supposed she shouldn't be surprised – the man wouldn't recite the Chant of Light if you begged, but he'd read to their patients all night if they asked.

"You drew this for me?" He looked utterly perplexed.

"Yes, well, I made little sketches for everyone when I had nothing else to do. Idle hands make demons' work, you know." She grimaced. "Not that this is demons' work. I saw them sitting on a branch in the courtyard and I thought of you. You like birds, right?" She pointed to the metal pendants dangling from a chain around his neck, a pair of little birds with wings outstretched.

"I suppose I do," he said, fingering his necklace thoughtfully, though his expression quickly morphed into dismay. "I have nothing to give you, I didn't even think – "

"Oh no, Captain!" Solona said quickly. "You needn't give me anything! No one else did. I suppose I'm the only one with time on my hands, and the inability to set aside silly traditions."

Samson kept looking at the drawing and his expression softened, a small smile lifting the corner of his mouth. "This one has such a bright little eye. He looks like he's ready to make mischief."

Solona laughed softly. "He was. As I watched them, he kept turning to his friend and pulling her feathers."

"No wonder she looks cross," Samson replied, his smile broadening. He lifted his eyes to meet hers. "Who would have thought songbirds could have such expressive faces?"

"It's amazing what you see when you take the time to look," Solona said, and then realized perhaps that sounded judgmental. "When you _have_ the time to look," she amended quickly.

Samson laid the drawing aside and nodded to her. "Thank you, Enchanter. It's a charming gift."

"Good night, Captain."

As she walked back to her own room, she tried to reflect soberly on the long winter to come, but her thoughts stubbornly drifted back to the sight of Samson, bare-chested and smiling. She hoped she hadn't been too obvious, but it was impossible not to admire his lean, muscular torso – an enticing sight, even with all his scars. She'd never before noticed that he was an attractive man, but now that she'd taken the time to look…

...

 _Haring 9:43 Dragon_

The next few weeks were hard. The red lyrium liked the cold and it clung stubbornly to their patients, refusing to allow the blue lyrium to gain ground. In two men, it even flourished, something they hadn't seen since Kingsway. Those were the worst days, when Samson and a failing templar had to walk into the woods together. The captain always returned alone, with his sword in hand and a plume of smoking curling above the trees. Everyone had hoped they'd moved beyond such executions of compassion, but it happened twice more in Haring. Solona could see on the others' faces that hers was not the only heart that ached.

She'd taken to bringing the captain a cup of tea with honey in the evenings, but on the nights after he'd been to the forest, she added whiskey instead. Samson thanked her gruffly, staring at the floor.

"I'm sorry, Captain. I hope his is the last sacrifice." She squeezed his shoulder sympathetically.

Samson frowned, as he always did when she evoked the Chant, but he covered her hand with his warm, calloused palm. "You know, you could dispense with the tea and just bring the liquor," he said, grief roughening the humor in his request.

"Tomorrow, I will," Solona replied. She moved toward the door, but his low, gravelly voice halted her steps.

"And you could stay, if you wanted. Tomorrow, that is."

So the next night she brought whiskey and she stayed, perched awkwardly on the edge of his bed making small talk. She stayed a little while the next night, too, and the night after that, and as the conversations grew more comfortable, the visits grew longer. Sometimes they drank whiskey, sometimes tea, sometimes wine. They always left the door open, but Solona knew people talked anyway.

She found she didn't mind.

...

 _1 Wintermarch 9:44 Dragon. First Day_

Squeals and shrieks drew Samson outside after he made his rounds checking on the templars. It was a bright, sunny morning, cold and clear, and a blanket of fresh powder covered the keep. He descended the steps to the courtyard, stopping short when he was hit in the face with a chunk of snow.

"Apologies, Captain!" Enchanter Solona called. "That was meant for Minaeve!"

Wiping his eyes, he took in the scene with a frown. It seemed the hospital staff had decided to make time for a snowball fight. Dagna and Sera were holed up near the stables, Adan and Mineave had appropriated the old merchant's stall, and Solona had constructed a little bastion for herself in a snowbank. Samson felt a pang of rejection that he hadn't been invited, but aside from his evening chats with the healer, he'd never tried very hard to insinuate himself with his colleagues. He shook his head as Solona cowered in her icy shelter.

"You seem to be outnumbered, Enchanter!" he shouted.

"I am!" Solona yelped. "Will you forgive my friendly fire and come to my defense?"

Samson hesitated – this was foolishness.

"Come on, sourpuss!" Dagna called.

It was nearly enough to make him turn on his heel, but the healer tossed him a comically pleading look, and despite his reluctance, he yielded. He sprinted across the courtyard, pelted with snowballs the entire way, and joined her behind her little wall. They leaned against the bank, shoulder to shoulder, as Solona hastily formed a pile of ammunition.

"My aim is terrible, as you may have noticed. Have you a good arm?"

Her cheeks were rosy from cold and exertion, and her warm brown eyes were bright with glee. Samson wondered how he could have ever thought her drab. He grabbed a handful of snow and shoved it down the back of her neck.

"Now we're even." He smirked as she frantically dug the icy wad from her collar.

Samson rolled over, crouching behind their cover, and began hurling snowballs at the others. Solona huddled at his side, ducking beneath his arm whenever enemy fire cleared the wall. She touched him constantly – her thigh pressed to his, her hand sliding across his back, her shoulder jabbing his ribs as she used his body as a shield – laughing and cheering him on as she handed him snowballs to throw.

 _She's flirting with me,_ he realized, a warm feeling curling in his belly. _And not subtly, either_. The others must be seeing it, too, the way she looked at him with admiring eyes and a teasing grin. They'd be the talk of the keep that night.

He found he didn't mind.

...

 _13 Wintermarch 9:44 Dragon_

While the men were ailing, Samson was a gentle nursemaid, tending to all of their ills patiently and without judgment. Once they were on the mend, however, he became a relentless taskmaster, pushing them to regain their strength. By mid-Wintermarch, three of the former red templars had successfully transitioned entirely to blue lyrium, and Samson had them out in the training yard running basic drills.

Solona consented to help them, shielding herself with magic so the templars could practice purging spells. Under their captain's watchful eye, they attacked her until her barrier dropped, then waited for her to recover. The enchanter played along gamely, but Samson warned her to alert him when her energy began to flag.

They repeated the exercise again and again, the templars' confidence growing each time the mage cried "Hold!" The blue lyrium did not impart the same strength and power as the red, but it was better than nothing, and the templar training justified its use. Samson felt ambivalent at best about exchanging one leash for another, _again –_ but soon enough, the hospital would enter the second phase of its mission and when it did, he would offer them the first beds. Well, not the very first.

His musings had pulled his attention away from Solona, so he didn't see her falter until it was too late. She dropped her barrier just as she was struck with three good dispels, and the force of them knocked her off her feet. Samson caught her before she hit the ground.

"Back to your rooms, templars!" he called as he peered anxiously at the mage's slack face.

Knocked out. _Damn!_ He scooped her up in his arms and cradled her slight body to his chest, cursing himself for his distraction as he carried her to her quarters. She regained consciousness as they neared her door and sighed against him, pressing her cheek to his shoulder. Her hand crept up and found the chain around his neck, her cool fingers brushing against his skin as she toyed with his necklace.

"I told you to tell me if you were tired," he growled, pushing open the door to her room and carefully laying her on the bed.

"I know," she said ruefully, trying to sit up. Samson put his hand on her shoulder and gently pushed her down again. After he pulled off her shoes, he sat on the edge of the bed.

"Rest, Enchanter," he said softly, brushing her hair off her forehead with his fingertips, unable to resist pressing his lips to her smooth skin. She made a small noise in her throat, a quick needy whimper, and he drew back in surprise.

Solona's eyes were closed, but her chin was tipped up in an unmistakable invitation. Samson nearly groaned, but this was clearly not the time.

"You need to rest now, Solona," he said firmly.

"But later?" she asked sleepily, and he smiled.

"If you rest."

Damn, now he'd be thinking about kissing her all day, wondering if she'd really hold him to his promise. She was concussed; no doubt she'd reconsider when her head cleared.

When later came, Samson was leaving the cell of one of the frailer templars. He found Solona standing in the hall in front of another room, shaking a healing spell off her fingers.

"Enchanter, how are you feeling?" His heart thudded in anticipation as she regarded him with a cheeky smile.

" _Rested,_ " she said pointedly.

Samson grinned. With a quick glance about to make sure the hall was clear, he rushed forward and pressed her against the wall. When their lips met, hers were soft and ready. She slid her hands up his chest and pulled him closer by the collar of his tunic as Samson's hands drifted to her waist. He could have stood there for hours, just relishing the warmth of her body, the taste of her mouth, and the sound of her impatient, hungry sighs.

"Been wanting to do that for a while," he admitted when he pulled back, before trailing his lips to her ear.

"Me too," she said, bending her neck obligingly.

That evening when she came to his room with a bottle of wine, Solona closed the door behind her.

...

 _29 Wintermarch 9:44 Dragon_

Solona sat upon Samson's lap, her fingers tangled in his hair. He'd unlaced the front of her robes and was diligently applying his mouth to her breasts, pausing occasionally to pull her head down for a kiss.

 _I'm going to die,_ she thought. _This man is going to kill me._

Two weeks! For two weeks, she'd come to his room in the evenings and shut the door, hoping each night that he would make love to her. Two weeks of kissing – Maker, the kissing! She couldn't think straight when his lips were upon hers, his hands holding her body so confidently… strictly above the waist. She wasn't sure if he was trying to be a gentleman, or if he just didn't want to bed her yet, but Solona hadn't loved a man this often and yet this chastely since – well, Cullen, actually. And that was a long time ago.

"Maker," she sighed, and he pulled his mouth away from her breast to look at her. She glanced down at her nipple, glistening wet in the candlelight, and whimpered. A rather smug glint in Samson's eye had her sitting back and glaring at him suspiciously.

"Do you know what you're doing to me?" she demanded.

"I'm licking your tits," he replied with a smirk, earning a surprised huff of laughter at the frank words from her otherwise reserved suitor. Before she could respond, he changed the subject entirely. "You're an Amell, but you never spent much time in Kirkwall, did you?"

Solona frowned. "Not really. I was taken to Ferelden when I was very young."

"In Kirkwall, it's traditional for sweethearts to give each other gifts for Wintersend. Spring being the season of lovers and all." He brushed his thumb across her sensitive peak and she shuddered.

"Wintersend's in two days. Are you asking me for a present?"

"No, I'm offering you one," Samson replied with a sheepish shrug. "But I have no talent for pretty drawings like you do, and I'm not sure what else you'd like. Guide me, Solona. What do you want?"

The wicked grin that flashed across her face surely said it all, but just in case he didn't get the message, Solona place her hand firmly on the straining bulge in his breeches. Samson actually looked surprised, so she brought her lips close to his ear and whispered, in no uncertain terms, exactly how their time together in the evenings affected her, and exactly what she'd done about it alone in her room, since he seemed inexplicably reluctant to take her to bed. His fingers tightened on her hip as she unburdened herself, and when she sat back to meet his eyes, he didn't look smug in the slightest.

"That's… Maker." He exhaled and then offered her a crooked grin. "I'm the last person to suggest that this battle-beaten body is any gift worth having, but if you want it, it's yours."

Solona grinned. "Tonight?"

"Of course not," he said, pushing her off his lap and smacking her behind. "For Wintersend."

...

 _1 Guardian 9:44 Dragon. Wintersend_

Samson looked about the room. It wasn't much, but it was his best effort. He'd moved his endless stacks of books to the library, and collected every spare candle he could find. He'd put clean sheets on the bed and shaken out the curtains, and procured from Levi Dryden a very nice bottle of wine. There were no flowers to be had on such short notice in the middle of a Fereldan winter, or else he'd have strewn rose petals all over the room like the besotted sap he'd become. He prayed Solona was content to keep their activity confined to the bed, for every other surface was covered in tapers, and the last thing he needed was to set the drapes ablaze while making love to a woman for the first time in… far too long.

Samson glanced in the mirror and grimaced at the five o'clock shadow peppering his jaw. He should have shaved again, but now there was no time. She'd be along any moment, her feather-light raps on the door softly announcing her presence. Maker help him, he was already hard.

He couldn't believe that this pretty little mage wanted to spend time with him – to _bed_ him – when she could have her pick from a stable-full of Inquisition soldiers younger, better looking, and far less responsible for the near-destruction of the world than he was. It frankly defied all explanation, but he was more than willing to accede to her request before she came to her senses.

At her gentle knock, he opened the door, welcoming her inside with a lingering kiss. She cooed appreciatively at all the candles as she twisted a roll of paper in her hands.

"What's that?" he asked, as he poured a glass of wine.

"A little gift," she said, and he frowned. "I know, we're each other's gift, but I couldn't help myself. Here." She thrust the paper at him and he handed her the goblet.

It was another drawing, and it spread a wondering smile across his face. She'd captured his likeness and hers – much less detailed than the picture of the birds, but incredibly evocative. In it, they were leaning against each other, Samson glancing at her sideways with an expression of exasperated amusement, while Solona looked up at him with a flirtatious grin, holding a snowball in her hands.

"That's how I remember that day," she said quietly.

"Me too," Samson said. "It's perfect." He rolled the drawing up and tucked it in his drawer, lest it get covered in wax, or worse. "Thank you, Solona," he said, pulling her into his arms. "It's even more charming than the last."

He kissed her then, slowly and sensually, hoping she could feel what he was promising her, how thoroughly he intended to pleasure her, how content he was to take his time with her… He let out a surprised grunt when her hand sought his length through his breeches.

"Maker's breath, woman, have you never heard of foreplay?"

"I've heard of it for two weeks!" she pouted, looking up at him and batting her lashes. "Don't you want me, Captain?"

"I do, Enchanter," he murmured, sliding his tongue along her jaw as he unlaced her robes. "Siren. Seductress. Desire demon. _Shameless, impatient hussy!_ "

Solona threw back her head and laughed, extending an irresistible invitation to nibble the hollow of her neck. When she stepped back and slid her sleeves from her arms, his breath caught in his throat. And when she let her robes drop from her hips to the floor, Samson would have sworn his heart stopped beating.

"Take me to bed, Samson. I'm ready for you."

He conceded the battle, but not the war. Solona had to wait before he joined with her completely, but the attention he paid with his hands and his tongue extended her patience a bit. When he finally thrust himself inside her – every tendon taut, every muscle straining – and looked into her shining eyes, he experienced a brief, flickering feeling that he'd finally found where he belonged.

And then he began to move, and Solona moved with him, and he experienced a wide range of feelings, the likes of which he would never have the skill to put to words.

...

 _1 Guardian 9:45 Dragon. Wintersend_

"Walk with me?"

Solona nodded, setting aside her sketching board, and accepted Raleigh's outstretched hand. Her heart began to pound as he led her down the eastern path into the woods, to the one place at Soldier's Peak he had begged her to never visit. The place where he alone had delivered to the Maker the red templars he couldn't save. It had been more than a year since he'd last had to carry out that harsh mercy, but Solona knew it haunted him. He blamed himself, and perhaps he was right to do so. She loved him anyway.

They entered a clearing with a large flat rock, bigger than a farmer's cart, and an enormous tree stump nearly three feet across. The wind had blown the snow off its surface and she could see it was blighted with a dark, ugly stain.

"I'd take their heads there," he said quietly, pointing at the stump. "Never had to ask a man to kneel twice. They all knew what was coming – what I'd done to them. They knew a quick death was the last apology I could offer."

Solona squeezed his hand and leaned against his side. He stared at the stump for several long moments, before clearing his throat and continuing.

"Then I'd build a pyre on that rock – you can't tell with all the snow but it's charred black from the bodies I burned. And I'd recite from Trials, even though the words felt like ash in my mouth. Only time you'll ever get me to speak that nonsense."

Solona let the slight against the Chant pass without comment. They'd had that debate before and would have it again, but not now. He turned to her and took both of her hands in his.

"Take a good look around, Solona. This is what _my_ pride has wrought. Of the countless men and women I poisoned to fashion into weapons for Corypheus, only thirty-eight still live. And me. I live, and I lie in your arms every night, happier than I have any right to be. Can you tell me that's just? Can you tell me it's fair?"

His stormy blue eyes bored into hers, his arching black brows drawn together in self-loathing.

Solona took a deep breath. "I can tell you that because of you, Ewin is whole again and returning home to his family tomorrow. Because of you, the scourge of red lyrium has been cleansed from the Templar Order, once and for all."

Raleigh rolled his eyes, muttering that since he'd introduced the scourge in the first place, it was hardly a recommendation. Solona ignored him and pressed on.

"And I can promise it's because of you that my heart is full and whole, and for the first time in my life, I know exactly where I belong. With you."

"Maker help me, I hope you mean that," he said. He clenched his jaw, looking over her shoulder for a moment, and then met her eyes again. "You know that the next phase of the mission at Soldier's Peak is to help templars coming off the lyrium. The first patients will arrive next month."

Solona nodded. It seemed to her that after dealing with the red lyrium, this ministry would be – if not easy, certainly much easier. At least they wouldn't have to treat poison with slightly less deadly poison.

"I've decided to step down as commanding officer," he said.

"What? Why?" Solona gasped, a rush of disbelief coursing through her. "Raleigh, you can't! They may not be red templars, but these men need you! _I_ need you."

"I need you, too, Solona, now more than ever." He pulled her close and wrapped his arms around her. "I was fit to command a hospital for red templars because I'd been one and survived. But how can I lead men away from blue lyrium when I'm still addicted to it myself?" He pressed his lips to the top of her head. "That's why I have to step down… and become the first of the new patients."

Solona gasped, a sob choking her throat. She'd wanted this for him for so long, but had never found the courage to suggest it. He'd been through so much already – to ask him to put his body through even more – she could never make herself do it. And now she didn't have to. Leaning back in his arms, she met his eyes with tears in her own.

"Then I shall be a most attentive healer." She bit her lip, willing the tears not to fall, and strove for a playful tone. "Don't tell the other men about the extra special treatments I'll give you. Those are yours and yours alone."

Raleigh laughed. "They'd better be." He leaned in and kissed her sweetly. "I have a gift for you."

He fished in his pocket, and then from his fingers dangled a delicate chain with a glittering pendant, a small bird with wings outstretched. Just like the other that he still wore around his neck.

"I always intended to leave this at Maddox's grave. For the longest time, I believed that no one else would ever mean anything to me, that with him died my capacity to care for another person. You proved me wrong, Solona. You've given me hope than I can be a better man."

Solona watched him silently, her heart so full she couldn't speak. Raleigh unfastened the clasp on the chain and held it up, wordlessly asking permission to adorn her with it. She nodded and gathered her hair in her hands, sighing as his lips brushed against the nape of her neck. The little bird nestled against the hollow of her throat, icy in the winter air, its twin secure with her lover.

"I'm sorry, Raleigh, I forgot about the Kirkwall tradition. I don't have a gift for you."

He moved in front of her again, taking her hands once more. "Then give me this: stand by me during my recovery, until I can stand on my own. Wait for me."

"Of course," Solona said, feeling puzzled as she wiped her eyes. "I'll always be there for you, you know that."

He stepped back and then astonished her by dropping to one knee. "Wait for me," he continued, "to be worthy of you. To be worthy of calling myself your husband." His sincere smile slid into a teasing grin. "For me to marry you and finally make an honest woman of my shameless, impatient hussy."

She frowned at him playfully, her heart in her throat. So like him to needle her about her insatiable desire in a moment like this – as if it were not entirely his fault in the first place! She widened her eyes impatiently, waiting for him to continue, and his grin faltered.

"Will you marry me, Solona Amell? Once I'm well, will you be my wife?" Raleigh stared up at her, his eyes clear and lovely in the afternoon light, and the look on his face – as if he thought she might say no! – sent spirals of fierce, tender passion through her.

 _I'd marry you now. I'd marry you tomorrow. I'd marry you even if you took lyrium for the rest of your life. Even if you never wanted to marry me, I'd belong to no other. I am yours._

But she knew he needed her to be his lamppost, a beacon of light at the end of the long, dark road ahead. And so, though her tears, she simply said, "Yes, Raleigh Samson. When you are well, I will marry you."


End file.
